


The Great Theodolphus

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fake Relationship, First Kiss, Getting Together, Historical, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Magicians, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley wakes to a new century, and finds he's not quite over his argument with Aziraphale. He also has unexpected competition for the angel's affection.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 107
Kudos: 573





	The Great Theodolphus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Djapchan, I'm sorry it took me so long, and I really hope you like it. And a big thank you to Losyanya, for the beta and the very helpful suggestions.

Aziraphale isn’t certain whether Crowley is going to show up or not.

The invitation had been something of an apology. He hadn’t expected their argument in 1862 to have such devastating, long-lasting consequences. He’d tried to reach out a few years afterwards, feeling as if he’d perhaps been a little too blunt in his refusal. But he’d quickly realised, to his distress, that Crowley was nowhere to be found. He’d spent a few panicked days being absolutely consumed with guilt and worry, until he discovered that Crowley had been sleeping safely in his place in Mayfair, rather than either avoiding him, or in some sort of awful trouble.

It’s been fifty years since they’ve seen each other now though, and Aziraphale misses him terribly. It’s been a long time since they’d gone fifty years without seeing each other - which is really such a small amount of time considering they’d once gone almost a thousand. But things are different now. At least, Aziraphale likes to think they’re different now.

So he can’t help the wide smile and the jolt of relief and pleasure, when Crowley stalks his way over to the agreed meeting place. He looks, admittedly, as if he’d hastily thrown on something which was just close enough to modern fashion that no one would think him dreadfully out of touch. Aziraphale suspects he’d simply copied something seen from his window and then modified it to suit his tastes.

“I see you got my invitation.” What he really means is ‘I’m so happy you accepted my invitation.’

“Yes, well, I needed the toilet.” It sounds a lot like an excuse. But Crowley slots himself so easily into the space at Aziraphale’s left shoulder, a familiar dark, angular silhouette. “Thought I better get up and see what was happening, it’s always a pain to catch up on too much. I’m already resigned to wasting an afternoon finding out what nonsense the humans are up to now.” His nose wrinkles, and he mutters something under his breath that Aziraphale chooses not to dignify with a response. “I saw your note - and your invitation - very fancy by the way.”

He says it so casually, as though it doesn’t matter, but there’s a pause to take in Aziraphale’s clothing, and his face, as if to commit the changes to memory. He can’t help but feel that Crowley regrets their fight as well. He must have understood, at some point, why Aziraphale absolutely couldn’t give him what he asked for. He couldn’t be responsible for anything - for anything happening to Crowley, the very thought of it wounded him deeply.

“As I mentioned in the note I left you, I’m quite willing to give you a play-by-play of what’s been happening while you were sleeping. Advances and discoveries, social expectations and so forth, all you have to do is ask and I’ll put something together.” The idea had appealed to him. It was a way to help Crowley in a very real sense, and one that wouldn’t be overly damning if the documents were discovered. Simply a pointed reminder of society’s expectations, lest his adversary expose them both.

But Crowley’s mouth goes thin, nose wrinkling at the thought. As though he finds the very idea of it ridiculous. Aziraphale can’t help but be offended.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” he protests. “I’ll have you know I’ve been keeping abreast of things lately. Which hasn’t been easy. Things have been moving awfully fast while you were sleeping.”

The pained expression takes on an amused and disbelieving air, which is too much, _honestly_.

“Fine, be like that,” Aziraphale huffs, and increases his pace a touch, so Crowley is forced into a longer, swaying stride to catch up with him as they shuffle into a row of seats.

“So, this ‘magician.’” Crowley draws the word out as if it’s something dubious and not to be trusted. “He any good?” He nods at one of the posters, which proclaims that ‘The Great Theodolphus’ will demonstrate astonishing magical talents never seen before.

Aziraphale’s been looking forward to this for weeks, he’d rather thought that Crowley might enjoy it too. That they might enjoy it together. That’s starting to seem unlikely. But he’s not going to let the demon’s obvious grumpiness ruin it for him.

“Oh he’s supposed to be quite talented, dazzling even, the reviews of his performances have been very complimentary. I took some lessons, while you were sleeping, with John Maskelyne, fascinating thing – the modern, magical arts. I find myself quite enthralled by it, the process, the secrecy, the dramatic reveals.”

Crowley grunts something unimpressed, folds his arms next to him and slumps lower in his seat. Which, Aziraphale knows from experience, is just Crowley being Crowley.

The Great Theodolphus is a tall, some might say handsome, man with carefully slicked hair and a striking moustache just on the cusp of old-fashioned. He takes to the stage with a dramatic flair, an exaggerated flow to his movements that evokes a sense of excitement and potency, even as he shows the audience that his equipment is perfectly sound and contains no hidden doors, trick hinges, or alternate methods of escape.

Crowley mutters something terribly uncomplimentary about how he should ‘stop prancing around and get on with it.’

Aziraphale nudges him with an elbow.

“Oh at least try, won’t you? You have to admit he’s quite a skilled showman, look at the way he holds the audience’s attention, look at how he makes a point to display his equipment.” It’s clear the man has studied and practised the art, until everything feels natural. But he’d still been creative enough to add his own flair.

“Yes, but he’s still a con artist though, isn’t he?” Crowley argues. “When you get right down to it. I mean that’s his business, that’s the whole point of this.” He gives a wave at the audience, staring up towards the stage, hanging onto the magician’s every movement. “Look at them. Waiting to be taken for idiots.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale chides. He hadn’t wanted to remove them from the audience’s awareness, he wanted the whole experience, but he will if he has to.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Crowley’s already pulling a triumphant face, but Aziraphale refuses to be drawn into an argument. “He’s tricking all these people into believing what are basically lies.”

“It’s a performance.” Aziraphale has another quick peek at the audience, at their fascination and delight as Theodolphus seemingly joins two solid rings together. “There’s a certain level of expectation that the magician will know things that the audience doesn’t.”

“Oh, so it’s fine if people _know_ they’re being lied to.” Crowley stretches his boots out so their half-leather half-scaled toes nudge rudely into the chair in front of him.

Aziraphale sighs, because he’d really rather have this conversation after the performance, but he suspects Crowley’s not going to give him that option. He was so looking forward to this as well.

“And there’s two women in that box, not one, I can see their body heat,” Crowley hisses. At a volume that Aziraphale suspects is not entirely meant to stay between the two of them. He shushes him as best as he can, but there’s still an irritated glare from a man in the row behind them.

“Crowley, that’s cheating.”

“It’s not cheating, it’s not cheating if I’m just _looking_.” He crosses his arms and gives an annoyed huff. “It’s not my fault my eyes are better than yours.”

“You’re not supposed to reveal how the acts are accomplished,” Aziraphale tells him sharply. “It’s considered something that should stay a secret to all but a select few. Those select few, of course, being members of the magic community.”

Crowley’s whole face manages to look insulted.

“Oh, the magic community is it? Well that explains it. Is that not us then? Did we not pay our dues, did they kick us out? Or is this community just for _fake_ magic?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s honestly getting tired of just repeating his name, in varying disapproving tones, and resolves to stop.

“Besides that’s the fun of a good mystery, isn’t it? Working out how it was done?” Crowley’s mouth has pulled into a deep frown. “Thought that was the whole point.”

“This is a magic act, not a murder mystery.”

They both consider this as the Great Theodolphus pulls out a saw and demonstrates that it’s both very real and very sharp. As his young assistant waits patiently in a coffin-sized box.

“Eh, well someone’s getting murdered if he hasn’t measured that box properly,” Crowley decides.

No one manages to actually be sawn in half, and the audience seems half-grateful and half-disappointed by this, to Crowley’s clear amusement. He holds his silence until a large tank of water is wheeled onto the stage, and they all wait for Theodolphus to acquire appropriate bathing attire.

“And here’s me thinking public drownings went out of fashion,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale, too excited and intrigued by the possibility of a daring underwater escape, ignores him.

“Also, he’s got a lockpick in his mouth, I saw him put it in there, he just stuffed it in bold as brass. Did no one see that?” Crowley lifts out of his chair and looks around, as if to see if anyone but him had spotted the set-up and not said anything.

“Would you please sit down,” Aziraphale scolds. He’s annoyed enough to reach out with an arm and physically pull him back into his seat, much to Crowley’s obvious surprise. His mouth presses into a line and he doesn’t say anything else for the whole escape attempt.

The Great Theodolphus doesn’t drown. He accomplishes a daring escape in one minute and seventeen seconds. It’s terribly exciting, and Aziraphale joins everyone else when they overwhelm him with cheers and applause.

Crowley doesn’t seem impressed. He leaves his arms firmly folded, making no attempt to join in.

“Idiot.”

Aziraphale can’t help but be disappointed when Crowley hurries them outside afterwards, without even taking a moment to congratulate the man on his performance, though he suspects Crowley’s mood would have driven him to ruin it anyway, and Aziraphale hates having to erase himself from human memory.

“Pretending they can do magic, it’s a bit rich isn’t it?” Crowley waves a hand back towards the theatre. “When it’s clearly all sodding about and tricking people and theatrics.”

“People want to believe, don’t you see how -”

“Gullible people,” Crowley decides, and Aziraphale scowls at the interruption.

“Not just gullible people, honestly, Crowley. They want to believe in the _idea_ of magic existing, that it’s happening before their eyes. The unseen, the impossible, the miraculous and unexplainable. For some it’s encouragement to seek and to know, to discover the how and the why. For others it’s simply the fascination in viewing things which - in their eyes - are impossible. They want to be convinced.”

“Oh, oh, they want to be _convinced_ ,” Crowley says bluntly, mouth pinching in disgust. “Of course, because that’s not how you get witch burnings, and drownings, and people with funny shaped birthmarks being gruesomely put to death. That’s what convincing people gets you. You should know that well enough by now.”

The knowledge that Crowley is not entirely wrong makes it more annoying somehow. That and the fact that Aziraphale can’t tell whether Crowley has a genuine point to make or whether he’s just arguing to be contrary, still cross about how they’d so acrimoniously parted last time. Either way, the whole afternoon is now ruined. All Aziraphale had wanted was a day of Crowley’s company after so long apart. He’d just wanted to share something he was interested in, something they could discuss together just like they always did.

Crowley seems to realise that Aziraphale has increased his pace on purpose, and gives an annoyed huff before catching up.

“Most of them know it’s not real, and the ones that don’t should be pitied for getting their hopes up.”

Aziraphale stops, so abruptly that Crowley almost runs into the back of him.

“Obviously it’s not real, Crowley. Obviously. It’s an art, like any other. But maybe I hoped you’d be a little more supportive.” Aziraphale can’t quite keep the disappointment or the hurt out of his voice. “Clearly I was wrong. I apologise for inviting you to something that you thought was beneath you.”

That’s a comment that hits, because Crowley’s expression crumples at the edges. In a way that leaves Aziraphale feeling guilty as well, which he thinks is deeply unfair.

“Oh, angel, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, I’ll buy you some candied nuts.”

“I'm not in the mood,” Aziraphale says, which is a lie. He’d been looking forward to the candied nuts, but now he’s feeling terribly upset, and he’s not in the mood to spend another minute being mocked. “I must get back to the bookshop, if you’ll excuse me.”

~

Crowley watches Aziraphale storm off with the distinct feeling that everything had gotten away from him a bit there.

The angel does an irritatingly good job of storming off. He’s not even doing it particularly fast. But he very clearly wants to storm away from Crowley, and he’s going to do it so help him. Crowley doesn’t know whether to be impressed or hurt, before eventually deciding that he can be both.

He hadn’t meant it like that. He hadn’t meant to mock the human ability to imagine things, to create their own worlds, to believe the impossible and then somehow reach out and grasp it. He was just trying to remind Aziraphale that it could be dangerous, that it was always used against people, used to trick them, time and again.

He hadn’t wanted Aziraphale to leave. He’d wanted to buy him nuts and watch him excitedly talk about his favourite parts of the stupid magician’s show, while Crowley complained and pointed out how all the tricks worked, because of course he’d been paying attention. Aziraphale would have fussed and scolded him, just like he always did. Then they’d have headed back to the bookshop after, to share a bottle of wine and catch up on everything Crowley had missed.

Now they might as well have argued again.

It was all the bloody magician's fault.

~

Two days later Crowley has reluctantly conceded that it was probably at least partially his fault as well. He hadn’t exactly been the most supportive friend, in fact he’d been an awful friend, sleeping for fifty years after their argument, without even a disgruntled note to let Aziraphale know.

What if the angel had needed him? What if he’d gotten himself in some sort of trouble? He has no one to blame but himself.

He’d been feeling a little out of sorts after his nap. He’d had to give himself a crash course in fashion and social behaviour for the new century, and it had annoyed him immensely. As happy as he’d been to see Aziraphale he’d admit to being - ugh, to being perhaps a touch jealous of how most of the angel’s attention had been on the third-rate magician. Which may have affected his mood somewhat - or a lot.

It’d been fifty years since he’d seen Crowley. It would have been nice to be missed a little.

Still, the angel had invited him out, had requested his company, and he’d behaved like an idiot, mocking and berating everything the angel had found interesting and exciting. He definitely owes Aziraphale some wine - do people still drink wine now? He owes him some expensive alcohol at least, and possibly some of those French chocolates he’s fond of, if they still do them? Some other sort of chocolates if they don’t. Crowley can’t say that he’s sorry out loud, obviously. But he can make the gestures, he can seep the intent. Until the angel forgives him. He’s always forgiven him before.

Having Aziraphale be angry with him is simply intolerable.

~

It turns out people do still drink wine, and the French chocolates are richer, denser and creamier in a way that Crowley is absolutely certain Aziraphale will appreciate. Has probably appreciated already, in fact, while Crowley wasn’t around. Though he’d probably had to buy them all himself. Which, Crowley knows, makes him feel guiltier for the indulgence.

Right, so, his plan is to show up at the bookshop, hand over the wine and chocolates, offer something in the way of an apology. Or as close to an apology as Crowley can get without his skin feeling like it’s peeling off - and not in the normal way he was used to his skin peeling off. It’s a perfect plan, if he follows it then there’s no way that it can fail.

But he discovers, once he reaches the bookshop, that Aziraphale isn’t alone inside. There’s the low drone of voices through the half-open door. Crowley assumes that it’s another annoying customer, until he hears the soft, deep sound of Aziraphale’s laughter. He leans in against the window, peers through the glass. He watches the visitor laugh at something Aziraphale had said, then turn into the light.

It’s the magician.

The Great Theodolphus.

No last name, arrogant prick.

Arrogant, third-rate, angel-stealing prick.

Crowley scowls in the window, not caring in the slightest what sort of picture he makes to people passing by on the street.

The angel is currently showing Theodolphus The Magnificent Bastard some sort of old book, and Crowley can tell that his enthusiasm is genuine - Crowley can also tell by the way Theodolphus leans into the table and smiles with his stupid, overly moustached mouth that his enthusiasm is genuine too. There is mutual enthusiasm.

Crowley is forced to un-crumple a box of chocolates with a quick burst of demonic power.

Fine, fine, he’ll - _wait outside for the bastard to leave and then make sure nothing but disaster, despair and misfortune touches him for the rest of the day_ \- he’ll come back later when Aziraphale isn’t being bothered by magicians.

~

Only Crowley doesn’t go back later, he takes the wine and chocolates home, and eats them himself.

The Bastard Theodolphus becomes a regular customer of the bookshop - no, not a customer, customers mill about inside and poke at the books, put their grubby fingers on things, and then threaten to buy them. A fact of bookshop ownership that Aziraphale clearly hates, though he’ll protest it until he’s blue in the face. He’ll say that he’s an angel, and is incapable of hating anything. Fine, Aziraphale strongly dislikes customers, Aziraphale loathes customers, Aziraphale abhors customers.

Theodolphus is not a customer. Theodolphus is a guest, Theodolphus is invited in with a smile, and a wiggle of delight, and the sweep of an arm. All of which Crowley has witnessed and despaired over. Sometimes even after closing time he’ll be a fixture of the shop. He leaves his coat and hat on the rack next to Aziraphale’s. He’ll wander the shelves and he’ll drink wine, or brandy while the angel _entertains_ him. Crowley knows as much because he skulks outside like the demon he is, watching this - this invasion of a space that Crowley had hoped to quietly slip back into. A space that he’d thought had belonged to him.

Aziraphale has replaced him.

Aziraphale has replaced him with _a magician._

He swears that he sees Aziraphale look towards him a few times, blue eyes searching in the rain. But Crowley’s a demon and he knows how to lurk. He lurks for the seventh time in two weeks, and he watches Theodolphus retrieve his hat and his coat and his fancy cane, before he has the temerity to embrace the angel in farewell - to briefly enfold him in his arms, and kiss his cheek and smile as if he’s allowed to do such a thing, as if he _knows him_.

Crowley is furious.

Crowley is also deeply hurt, and he refuses to deal with either emotion in a manner befitting a six-thousand-year-old being.

He goes home, and he lets a miasma of quiet, jealous misery follow him. Let it severely inconvenience anyone who comes into contact with him.

~

The magician accompanies Aziraphale to the opera, and to brunch, and to an art exhibit, and to some sort of debate meeting at an exclusive club that Crowley can’t wrangle his way into without using his demonic wiles. Which the angel will know about immediately.

He’s not sure what exactly Aziraphale sees in Theodolphus. He’s aesthetically pleasing enough for a human, but that’s only going to apply for another twenty years or so. If he even lives that long, mortals are so bloody fragile - and able-bodied men are picked off all the time, either by syphilis, or tuberculosis, or in one of the armed conflicts that seem to pop up with alarming regularity. They’ve probably found even more new ways to die since he went to sleep, they usually do. Aziraphale’s new friend will die eventually. Aziraphale’s new friend will die...and he’ll probably be devastated, and alone. While Crowley is somewhere sulking.

Damn it.

Is it the magician thing? Should Crowley learn how to do magic tricks - fake ones rather than real ones, honestly he still doesn’t understand that and he probably never will.

No, that’s a stupid idea, that would just look obvious and desperate.

But the whole thing is infuriating. Crowley accidentally sleeps for fifty years after an argument, then he gets barely a few hours of Aziraphale’s company before they end up having another argument, and now he’s been replaced by a moustachioed pillock that missed the memo about three quarter length capes being out of style. Even Crowley knows they’ve had their time, and he was asleep for fifty years.

It’s _infuriating_.

Now Crowley is forced to think of a way to win Aziraphale back, because he’s a demon and he’s not going to let this stand!

~

He’s been asleep long enough that he’s out of touch with exactly which books Aziraphale already has in the shop now, and which he might want. If he’s pining for a first edition, then Crowley has not been the one he’s been pining to about it. Which does nothing but gnaw unhelpfully at the reason for his search in the first place. New restaurants and dining rooms have sprung up around the capital, all of them with unfamiliar menus. He has no idea what new plays, or even forms of entertainment have become popular. He’s starting from a position of weakness and he hates it. A properly productive demon would be on the pulse of the city by now, they’d have this all sorted out by now. They’d have a fiendish - alright, not too fiendish, it was for the angel - plan already put together using all their intelligence and cunning and wiles.

But, no, instead Crowley’s spent the last few weeks miserably stalking a magician, rather than discovering what Aziraphale likes now.

He tries, one night, after a bit too much wine. He scribbles a note to Aziraphale, inviting him out to a restaurant he’s heard mentioned in passing, not too far from his shop. Only Crowley decides that the invitation sounds too desperate and ends up taking out half the words. He sends it before he can sober up and think better of it.

He doesn’t know if Aziraphale ever receives it, he hopes not, because there’s no reply.

Crowley finally caves and reads a few newspapers. Humanity has been making advances at a staggering rate, and he’s irritatingly behind. Apparently they could even fly now. They’d swapped out hot air balloons for actual giant, bird-shaped contraptions that just kept gliding until they wanted to come down. Crowley had missed the whole thing. He’s amazed that Hell hadn’t tried to get in touch. Maybe they hadn’t noticed yet? He could probably pass it off as pride, an affront to the Almighty and all that. He’ll have to bash together something, make excuses about where he’s been. Hell only allows sloth to the point where it doesn’t start to affect infernal quotas.

It was just supposed to be an angry nap that skipped past all the parts where Aziraphale was mad at him, it wasn’t supposed to slingshot Crowley into the future and leave him stumbling around with no idea what the fuck was going on.

With no angel to boot.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s going to have to do something drastic.

~

It’s early in the morning, too early for anyone else to be up. Magicians have to sleep, unlike Crowley and Aziraphale.

He decides to knock, since he isn’t entirely sure just walking in won’t start off some sort of argument again. Which is the very last thing he wants. This is the angel’s space after all, and he’s probably still at least a bit cross with him. But they’re friends, they’ve been friends for almost six thousand years. Even when Aziraphale won’t admit it. They’re friends. The best of friends. He knows they are. There’s no one else Crowley loves - damn it, he can say it to himself if never to anyone else. There's no one else Crowley loves, and he will not ruin this through his own stupidity.

The door swings open, and Aziraphale looks surprised. “Oh, I thought you were the morning post,” he says faintly.

Crowley gestures with the large bouquet he’s holding, yellow roses and chrysanthemums - and one lily, hidden among the blooms. He chooses to believe that was reckless stupidity rather than any sort of hope. Crowley’s been asleep a while and he can’t be up to date on everything. Maybe flower languages have changed?

“I’m sorry,” Crowley rushes out, half-afraid the words will leave his tongue burnt and blackened in his mouth. “For being an idiot, at the magic show. For not being supportive. For picking a fight, never meant to. Woke up on the wrong side of the century.”

Aziraphale blinks at the rush of words, mouth working briefly before it presses shut. He takes the flowers from him, with a soft, surprised ‘oh.’ Crowley suspects he’d spotted the lily straight away, probably read things into it before Crowley could think up any excuses.

Not much point trying to make any now.

“Flowers are good with an apology, right? Good wherever you get them from, shops, markets, leant against headstones in a graveyard.”

Aziraphale sighs and ushers Crowley inside, as if he’s bound to being a good host now. If only long enough to find the flowers some water.

“I haven’t seen you for a month,” Aziraphale reminds him, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the hurt. It’s so sharp in his voice, as if Crowley deserves it, and he winces, mouth shifting about unhelpfully, rather than admitting to anything he’s been doing. Which has mostly been nefarious stalking and lurking in the rain. Satan, he’s been more demonic in his depression spiral than he has for a thousand years.

“Yeah, sorry, I had to...find some flowers.”

Aziraphale doesn’t seem taken in by his awful excuse.

“You haven’t been to see me once,” he accuses, and Crowley honestly can’t tell if he’s angry or upset. "You’ve just been lurking out there in the rain like some sort of ghoul."

Crowley winces. “I knew you’d spotted me.”

“It was hard not to, to be honest. That sort of hat has been out of style for a while now.”

Crowley pulls the hat off with a grunt of annoyance and tosses it away with a brief but firm suggestion that it ends up somewhere else.

“Well it’s not like you’ve been starved for company. What with your new _magician friend_ hanging around, monopolising your time and fingering all your first editions. Thought that sort of thing was reserved for the third romantic outing.”

He’s expecting that to hit a nerve, but the angel just sighs as though he’s being ridiculous.

“Theo and I are just friends.”

That hurts more than it should. The way the angel throws that out as if it’s less than what they have. When the angel has never once voiced the same about him, has never called him a friend. When Crowley has been his dirty little secret for almost six thousand years. He wants to pretend it doesn’t hurt, that it doesn’t feel like Aziraphale giving away parts of himself that Crowley has never been allowed to call his own. But it does hurt, and it makes him sharp, the same way it always does.

“Oh, it’s Theo now, is it?”

“Yes, it is. He’s been helping me with a few of the beginner arts. Card tricks and so forth.” Aziraphale looks annoyingly pleased, and a bit smug, about the whole thing.

Crowley badly wants to snap a question about whether that’s all he’s been teaching him, but Aziraphale deserves better than that. He deserves better than Crowley’s jealousy and his spite and his daydreams about all the awful things he could do to a third-rate magician that he could make look like simply bad fortune and inattention.

But he won’t. No matter how much Crowley has decided he hates him, the man is Aziraphale’s friend. Aziraphale deserves a friend.

He knows he should apologise, he should admit to a fraction of his insecurity, of his frustration. He should tell Aziraphale that he missed him, that he slept all that time away and somehow he’s still just as angry, just as hurt, just as lost as he was before he went to sleep. Or he should ignore all of that, and just tell Aziraphale that he’s happy he has a friend he can talk to about his interests - after Crowley abandoned him without a word. He should say that he’s happy he’d found himself a hobby that excites him. Hobbies are good, they keep you sane when the world feels like it’s on a fast track to something loud and angry and unstoppable. Of course Aziraphale should be happy, that’s all Crowley’s ever wanted - he just wanted to be a part of it.

Crowley knows all the things he _should_ do. But that doesn’t mean he ever listens to his own advice. Especially not when everything inside his chest is being slowly squeezed to pulp.

No, what he’s almost certainly going to do instead of any of that, is retrieve his stupid outdated hat from nowhere, and mutter something about having important things to do, or about having another nap. Then he’s going to leave the bookshop with as much dignity as he can muster.

“Well, we’ve caught up, and you’ve caught me in my fiendish wiles, so I suppose that whole plan is a wash. I guess I’ll see you in a few decades.” How long does it take a magician to die of old age anyway?

What he’s not expecting is for Aziraphale to look suddenly crushed, then determined, moving hurriedly out from behind the desk and half scattering papers to the floor. One hand reaching for him across a tumbled pile of books.

“No, Crowley, please, that’s not - that’s not what I wanted at all.”

Crowley frowns.

“Not what you wanted?” A horrible thought occurs to him. “What do you mean - have you been doing this on purpossse!? The magician and the outings and the snubbing of my invitations.”

The angel’s face is such an immediate and perfect picture of guilt that Crowley has to suck in a breath.

“Crowley, it was one invitation, and it was barely that. It was a six-word sentence about the existence of a restaurant,” Aziraphale says, with just a hint of annoyed petulance.

“You _were_ doing it on purpose.” Crowley’s not sure whether to be hopeful, or furious, he settles on furious, because he’s had a long time to learn that the universe never gives him what he wants, it just finds new and interesting places to stick the knife. “Why would you do that? Is it some sort of pointed comment on my - my -” Crowley can’t say it, can’t just come out and admit it, when he never has before. When neither of them has ever acknowledged the - the fondness between them. Or the fact that there’s a possibility that for one - or both - of them, it could be more than that. The not-acknowledging-it has kept them safe for centuries.

“No.” Aziraphale looks horrified at the thought. “No, I would never be so cruel.” There’s an awkward twist of hands, a sigh of breath. “I just wanted - I wanted you to desire my company.”

Which is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.

“Angel, I have always desired your company, above all others. You bloody know that.”

“I missed you,” Aziraphale adds quietly, and even that much seems scandalous for them. “And I found something of a kindred soul in Theo. The poor man’s been in love with his manager for some years now, unrequited I’m led to believe. We’ve been - commiserating I suppose you could say. But then I saw you outside, reading certain things into our meetings, he is rather handsome I suppose. I thought if I played it up a little that perhaps you’d come back, make some protest, take me to dinner.” The guilty admission is more than Aziraphale has ever given him before. “But then you didn’t -”

Crowley finds he’s reached out and caught Aziraphale’s twitching fingers, their solid length warm under the narrow chill of his own. Whatever Aziraphale was going to say turns into a soft, exhaling breath. But he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t try and untangle his fingers from Crowley’s. Instead he simply _allows the contact_. Which is an intimacy that Crowley honestly hadn’t expected, and doesn’t quite know how to deal with. Something that would seem a relatively harmless gesture between human friends is something so very different between two beings who can channel untold power through the slightest movement of their fingers and the smallest exertion of will. Touch has never been easy for them.

“You’re a very stupid demon if you think I could ever find anyone to replace you, in any way,” Aziraphale says quietly. His fingers curl around Crowley’s, and squeeze gently.

“Angel, I wouldn’t have slept - not so long - if I’d known,” Crowley admits. “If I'd thought it would - that it would upset you.” It’s not an apology, it’s more than an apology. It’s the closest he’s ever come to voicing out loud how much Aziraphale means to him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says simply.

A slow, heavy tread of feet outside encourages Crowley to ease them into the soft, dark space between two bookshelves. The shadow of stacked paper hiding them from view.

“You could have woken me. Come to my residence and shook me awake if you wanted to. I’m sure you could have found some fiendish thing you could have insisted you’d come to accuse me of, if anyone asked.” Crowley can’t help the annoyed sound. “You wouldn’t have even had to ask. I know it’s more difficult for you to reach out, I understand that. Any excuse, angel, if you wanted - if you needed to see me. For whatever reason.”

Aziraphale looks a little overwhelmed. Crowley knows that it’s his job to take a step back, to let the angel breathe. He knows it’s more difficult for him to disobey. It always has been.

“I’m sure you could see yourself coming to leave an angrily worded note through a demon’s door. Show him that you’re watching him and he’ll get away with no wiles on your watch. Not while you call London home anyway -”

“It’s you,” Aziraphale says quietly. It’s just two words, but they’re loaded with so many things. Enough of them that Crowley finds he suddenly can’t breathe. “It’s always been you,” Aziraphale continues, as if the first admission was a crack in the dam, water streaming through. “You must know by now - you must have guessed how I -” He stops, face so obviously hoping that Crowley knows how the sentence ends.

Crowley’s throat won’t make any noise, it just swallows and clenches and drags in air like a broken thing.

Aziraphale must read his silence as something else entirely, because something painful slowly steals over his face.

“I know I’ve been cruel, I’ve always made you reach out. I understand if it’s too late, if you don’t -”

Crowley lifts his arm, throwing out as much demonic static as he’s physically capable of, until the small corner of the bookshop must feel like nothing but the most fiendish of wiles being performed, shrouded so hard from view that someone would have to tear it down by force.

Then he reaches out, dares to hold Aziraphale’s face in his hands, and leans in. He pauses, a breath away, to make sure -

Aziraphale closes the gap.

It’s a moment, a handful of seconds, a push against each other, such a strange, simple human affection. But for them, for them it’s six thousand years of wanting condensed down to an instant. It’s a confession, and a confirmation, a question, asked and then enthusiastically answered.

When Crowley pulls away his mouth is warm, and Aziraphale’s cheeks are pink.

“Of course I do,” Crowley says simply, fiercely. “Everything, all of it, since the beginning, always. You know that, _you know_.”

Aziraphale blinks, and then his mouth does something soft and overjoyed, eyes unexpectedly bright, as though Crowley has wounded him in some sort of terribly necessary way. Before he clears his throat and straightens his waistcoat.

“You’ll stay for a while?” Aziraphale says, and it need not even be a question, of course Crowley will, as long as Aziraphale wants, always if he wishes it. Aziraphale must read the answer in his face because there are fingers tucked into a fold of Crowley’s jacket, daring to slide underneath, to squeeze briefly at his waist. That shocking moment of warmth through the material of Crowley’s shirt nearly unravels him completely. “I feel suddenly that I must lecture you on your behaviour of late, on your obvious ill-intent towards my friends,” Aziraphale adds. He reluctantly lets his hand fall away. “It may take a while so I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner.”

It’s the flimsiest of excuses, but it will protect them for now, and that’s all that matters.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Great Theodolphus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386793) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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